


Dream Sequence

by ravenclawkohai



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi
Genre: M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 02:11:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13308210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclawkohai/pseuds/ravenclawkohai
Summary: In the wake of Han's murder, Kylo Ren is plagued by nightmares. Sleep deprived and haunted, he struggles to cope, even if it means leaning on people he never intended to.





	1. Chapter 1

               Kylo held his breath as he twisted his fighter into another roll, only barely glancing at his targeting system, relying more on the sight through his windshield and Force-driven gut instinct as he shot down gun station after gun station. He was talented in a fighter, always had been. Luke used to say that it was in his blood, all Han’s skill guiding Leia’s gift with the Force. Every time he climbed into the cockpit, he could hear his old Master saying it, amusement on his face and pride in his tone. It turned his stomach to remember it now, even more so to remember the swell of his own pride, the way the beam had split his face. He pushed that memory down, taking out another gunner through feeling, his eyes barely focused. He had to wrench himself back to the present.

               As soon as he re-centered himself, he was pull off again.

               He could feel the ghost of his father’s hand on his shoulder, the way he used to lean over Kylo (Ben?) to point out different toggles and buttons, explaining what each meant, usually with some anecdote about either some extreme success or failure each had caused. A thousand different stories flickered through his head, visualizations built from the verbal paintings his father shared. He lost sight of the cruiser through his windshield, eyes focusing in on the controls. His eyes unfocused until he was seeing double, half the shadowy black of his fighter, half the glowing gray of the Falcon. The radioed orders, the play-by-play from the other fighters faded out into ringing white noise, and then suddenly, his seat felt three sizes too big. The hand on his shoulder turned into two big hands covering his, guiding him through piloting, only pulling away to allow him to press a button or flip a switch, the guidance turning into reminders and instructions from a voice in his ear. The deep darkness of space was replaced by a bright desert, the light of two suns pouring in so much it was almost blinding.

               The path he carved waved and curled, dipping dangerously low only to pull up sharp, overcompensating and throwing everyone in the pit backwards, those guiding hands gripping his seat to prevent a fall. He could hear Chewbacca’s complaints and warnings, but he also heard his own laughter match his father’s. He knew from Han’s tone that he was placating his co-pilot, but he was too focused on piloting to catch the words. Still, that wide grin lingered on his lips, the rush of flying making his blood sing.

               The sound of the wookie died out, but Han’s voice lingered. The Falcon melted into a borrowed (stolen) X-wing. Callused hands guided him through the weapons systems; he knew how to pilot, now, so their focus switched to multitasking, using the guns while steering. That wild grin was missing, replaced with a furrowed eyebrow and concentration. The peace-making amusement was absent, a quiet pride in Han’s tone instead.

               “Ben,” his father said in the X-wing.

               “Ben,” his father said in the Falcon.

               “Ben,” his father’s ghost said in his fighter.

               “Ben,” his father said on the walkway.

               The piloting systems were replaced with the familiar weight of his lightsaber, the trigger for the guns replaced with the switch on his blade. His hand, moving to use the guns, couldn’t be stopped when he realized the change. Red light lit his father’s face, the way bright white came off the Falcon’s dash. All that pride in his voice replaced with the shock, the betrayal. The swoop in his stomach from a sharp upturn turned into a sudden sinking. Determination and conflict and regret rose like bile through him, and he felt his face go slack with a shock that mirrored Han’s. The hand on his shoulder changed from that lean-over to point to a toggle to a death-grip to try and remain standing.

               He switched the saber off without thinking. Without that point of contact to support him, Han slumped, he tilted, he tumbled over the side. That grip on his shoulder stayed, only turning tighter, his father pulling him off the bridge with him. They fell together, a sick lurch in his stomach, though he couldn’t tell if it was from his act or the fall. Han’s eyes asked him why at first, but then his face smoothed into resignation. Father and son closed their eyes just in time to feel the impact.

               The moment he hit bottom he shot upright in his bed.

               He was panting and covered in cold sweat, his sheets sticking to him. He took in the familiar sight of his room, the black walls and furniture, the pedestal of ashes, his grandfather’s twisted helmet with his own beside it.

               With a shuddering breath, Ben— _Kylo_ closed his eyes, pulling air in slowly through his nose, letting it escape even slower from his lips. He repeated the action until his heart was no longer racing. Without opening his eyes, he pulled the sheet away from himself and crossed his legs, resting his hands on his knees. Too many thoughts spilled through his mind, unable to find his center. The nightmare lingered, the mix of emotions and memories (most of which he wanted to forget) sitting like a rock in his stomach. He reached out, feeling with the Force to find comfort in the familiarity of his surroundings. The cold, almost wet energy from the durasteel the ship was built from, the human warmth that lingered in the ashes, the safety of family from his grandfather’s helmet. The sharpness of his lightsaber on his nightstand, soaked through with his energy and the power of the kyber crystal housed inside, a sense of kinship in it from the crack running through it and the way it burned like a small star, overflowing with energy. The feelings melded together, piecing together a full picture that said _home_.

               Or, as close to a home as he had anymore.

               He put aside that feeling, the sense of pressure to perform, of conflict over instinct and orders, the sharp tang of fear inlaid from the growing pile of nightmares he’d had over the years. He had nowhere else to call home, not his mother’s side on the dozens of planets she brought him, certainly not the Falcon, not Luke’s temple, possibly the most soured of them all. There was no true sense of safety in this home, nothing being a guarantee here, not his health or his position or his worth. There was nothing unconditional, but he _earned_ everything he had here, and the satisfaction of that made up for the lack of stability. He could lose everything, yes, but he had something to strive for, a purpose. He told himself that was enough.

               What was _not_ enough was his newfound sleeping habits. He had told himself, before and after, that his father’s death would not bother him, would not sway him, would not concern him, but he couldn’t force that to be reality no matter how hard he tried. He had some measure of success putting it to the back of his mind during the day. He could lose himself in meditation, in training, but there was no way to guard himself in sleep.

               He knew it was a bad idea, but he began to avoid sleep. Exhaustion weakened his connection to the Force, slowed his reflexes, limited his strength and dulled his focus. He would be at a severe disadvantage in battle, but the sleep he was able to get wasn’t restful, almost seemed to drain him _more_ than staying awake. Still, he couldn’t think of a better solution, so he stuck to his decision.


	2. Chapter 2

               He was kneeling, head bowed, as the projection of the Supreme Leader flickered to life above him. He knew Hux would be waiting outside, possibly with an ear to the door, but he could do nothing about what the Supreme Leader might say. He did his best to clear his mind, empty every thought and impulse and feeling. Snoke couldn’t read him as well through the hologram, but to assume that distance provided him any true safety was folly. He hoped it was enough not to make a bad situation worse.

               “ _Kylo_ ,” the Supreme Leader started, and even with his head lowered, he could sense the sneer. “Kylo Ren, Master of the Knights of Ren. My apprentice. My _disappointment_.”

               It took physical effort to fight back his flinch. He forced his head to be blank, blank, blank, forcing down any reaction to the words other than the increase in his heart rate, which he could do little about.

               “Possibly my greatest disappointment—” he continued, and Kylo knew there was more to that sentence, more harsh words that put true fear into his heart, for his safety and his sanity and the new self he had built brick by brick under Snoke’s tutelage, but he couldn’t hear it. The pounding of his heart swelled and swelled, booming in his ears, loud and rhythmic, until it was so strong that he slipped, needing to lean forward on one hand to catch himself.

               He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, and was surprised to find that it actually worked. It took almost more courage than Kylo had, but he blinked slowly and looked up, only to find another Master, another lecture.

               As the pounding in his head faded, he could hear Luke say, “—disappointment, but we all have to start somewhere.”

               The world around him that had been pitch black, lit only by small, distant lights and the huge hologram, was replaced by a bright sun and grass between his fingers, his ungloved fingers, with one bare hand propping him up on one knee covered in rough beige, a training uniform. Training, that’s right, training with his uncle, whose hand appeared in front of his face. Ben looked up and up and up to see Luke, who raised his eyebrows expectantly. He took his hand and let himself be pulled upright, grabbing the wooden practice sword that he had dropped by his feet on his way up.

               “You’ve been practicing, though, and it shows,” Luke said as he dropped his hand and stepped backward, flashing him a smile, “You should be proud.”

               As he said it, Ben could feel the emotion rush through him and looked over to where his father was sitting, watching, wanting to “see what all the fuss was about” while he was planetside. But when he looked over, Han had his back turned, applying some fix to the Falcon that shaded their spar area. He felt disappointment overwhelm his pride, shrinking it down into nothingness. His stomach fell into his shoes and he had to steel himself to look up, hand tightening around his hilt.

               In a seamless transition, the bright, grassy area was replaced by a well-lit training room and six sets of eyes were watching, most simply curious at his pause. He set his shoulders back and settled into his role. His Knights, his pupils, who looked to him for instruction and leadership. He had taken these people from Luke’s temple in the dead of that night when he burned it all down. They were his responsibility. They followed him at first because they knew him, knew Luke, and, once the situation was explained, knew that Luke had been wrong. They came with him because they really didn’t have any other option at the time. They followed him now because he had earned their respect, their trust. Snoke clung to the old Sith ideal, taking only one pupil and refusing to train the others. But he had brought them to the First Order with him, and he had decided early on to pass the training he received onto them. If he were to lead them, he would turn them into the strongest force he could.

               Kylo lifted his chin and the six dark forms around him sprang into action. They were all using practice swords, though they could have used lightsabers and come out none the worse for wear. They knew how to pull strikes, how to acknowledge the hovering of blade next to skin that counted as a blow in every way but bloodshed.  Still, it was an old formality, a standard he had set when they were children that he had never changed. There was something cathartic about letting blows land, in not holding back but not fearing for another’s safety. Group sparring like this was stress release for them as much as it was practice.

                Yet when they flowed into battle, his practice sword was suddenly replaced by his lightsaber. Though he could have finished this practice with his blade and not spill a drop of blood, he didn’t hold back when he flowed through the battle. His Knights dropped one by one, and he compensated for the blood on the floor without thinking to stop the fight. Some part, trapped deep inside of him, was screaming. He didn’t want to do this. He’d lost too much, _thrown away_ too much to let this happen. The old Jedi principles preached detachment, but he wasn’t training to be a Jedi anymore, and he was deeply, deeply attached to these people. But his body was moving without his control, without his command. He didn’t stop until every single Knight was dead at his feet. He froze then, breathing heavily from exertion, from heartbreak. What had he done?

               The screaming inside of him built and built and built until it was torn from his throat, and he shot upright in bed with a shout.

               Like before, he took in his surroundings, realized his situation, and tried to put it aside. He could taste bile as he shifted and let himself fall into meditation once more, allowing every part of him to fall away and just be.

               He hadn’t intended to fall asleep. He remembered returning to his quarters to grab something, though he forgot what. Judging by the way he was still dressed, even still in his boots, and had been lying on top of his now rumpled blanket, his body had simply decided to take advantage of the moment without his consent. It was a bad sign.

               He knew there were dark, dark stains under his eyes now. He was making frequent trips to any given caf machine, relying on the caffeine to keep him awake. He kept his helmet on to hide the way exhaustion was written into every line of his face, trying to find privacy to drink his caf and keep the secret of his sleep deprivation. It didn’t help that he had no appetite, only able to force himself to eat the minimum to maintain his health and fitness. The lack of sleep, appetite, and constant caffeine buzz made for a nasty mix that ruined his already limited temper.

               The Supreme Leader could not know. His inner turmoil could not be hidden, not when Snoke knew the ins and outs of his mind so well. But his physical health could be kept a secret as long as he didn’t come face to face with the Supreme Leader.

               Hux could not know. Though they had begun sleeping together quite a while back, it had been limited to frenzied kisses stolen around hidden corners and late night trysts that left both glad for the soundproofing of the walls in their rooms. Still, there was something building there, some fledgling trust that had been forming. They had begun to actually sleep in each other’s beds, finally trusting that neither would stab the other in his sleep. They vented to each other, but only about inconsequential things that couldn’t be used against one another. Small irritations, frustrations with their subordinates, brief stories about casual events. After Hux had risked quite a lot saving him from the ice before the world exploded, there was something more building there. Hux had seen him weak and not used it against him. Kylo had seen Hux’s failure and not turned that into a weapon. But Kylo had been pulling away, driven into isolation by his nightmares and the unsettling, unwanted guilt that plagued his waking hours. Some part of him hoped that Hux knew it was because he was pulling away from _everyone_ and not a personal slight, but he couldn’t summon the energy to actually have that conversation. He was starting to trust Hux, but he couldn’t bear his throat to him yet, not like this.

               His subordinates could not know. Hux won his respect by rising through the ranks, by proving himself in the same system as their subordinates. They understood implicitly what it took to reach that height, what it took to reach that height at such a young age, and yielded to him through that understanding. Kylo won his respect through brute force. He earned their fear initially through his title; crossing the Supreme Leader’s apprentice could result in punishment from Snoke himself. But that had been his springboard, his foot in the door. His subordinates feared him still, yes, but now it was because they knew the sheer danger he could be. They had seen him in battle, heard tale of his exploits, watched him pilot his fighter and bring down ships by himself that should have required a team at least. To let them see him weak would be to tarnish his reputation, reduce their fear of him. He couldn’t let them see his humanity.

               There was only one person he could trust with this: Captain Phasma. They had been training partners for a long, long time. She was the only person who seemed able to keep up with him. He could trust her to spot him when weight training, the only one who could really match him in a spar whether it was melee or with blasters. Her tactical mind worked different than his, but their skill level was equal. She led the Stormtroopers as he led the Knights of Ren. The troopers followed easily, knowing that she knew how to command their large numbers and lead them to victory. The Knights followed him because he knew each and had earned every member’s respect; they trusted him implicitly, with their lives both in and out of the battlefield. Hux was his equal in title and rank, but Phasma was his equal as a fighter and a leader.

               Still, he had been avoiding telling her. He knew she could be trusted with the secret, but everything in his life had taught him caution, to trust no one. Admitting weakness went against his every instinct. He had no intention of telling her when he finally stopped meditating and left his room with intent to train, seeking solace in physical exertion.


	3. Chapter 3

               He couldn’t force himself to pay attention to the chatter. This was one of the reasons he didn’t like staying with his mother; she dragged him to these political meetings. She didn’t want to leave him home alone, had no babysitter, and thought the experience would be good for Ben. Her father had brought her along to meetings like this, and being raised amidst politics was the best training she could ask for when she entered that field herself. She was too busy to notice that Ben was bored to tears. He sat at his mother’s side, quiet because his eleventh attempt to ask to be excused had been shushed. Knowing that his mother would just grab him and tell him to sit down if he got up to leave on his own, he slumped in his chair to wait, arms crossed petulantly, chin tucked against his chest. He was going to fall asleep out of sheer boredom if he did nothing, so he began counting as high as he could in every language he knew how. Being the son of a politician and a galaxy-travelling smuggler brought him in contact with more languages than most people heard in a lifetime. He didn’t always pick up much, but he was young, and the languages themselves were sometimes more interesting than the words being said, so he clung to the form of entertainment.

               He fussed with his clothing, stiff and formal and expensive because he was Ben Organa (when he was with his mother) and he had to look the part. He had liked the outfits when he was younger, enjoying looking nice and loving the compliments he was given. But now, they were a nuisance. They were uncomfortable and impractical for doing anything other than sitting around, and while he knew that was all he really did when he stayed with his mother, the thought of it bothered him. These meetings had been exciting when he was young enough to sit in his mother’s lap at them, but he had outgrown them.

               When he was Ben Solo, he wore whatever he liked. He was allowed free reign over the ship on the condition that he didn’t break anything, or that if he did break something, he would fix it. Sometimes he broke things just for fun, to have a chance to pick something apart, figure out how it worked, and put it back together again. He learned how to fly and how to shoot and how to repair pretty much anything he came across, having his father’s natural knack for it. Even if he was forced to stay in the ship while his father “handled business,” there was excitement and adventure on the Falcon that he just didn’t get when he was planetside with his mother.

               His boredom had reached a critical level. His eyes were drooping and his head kept nodding. He knew his mother wouldn’t be happy with him if he fell asleep at the meeting, but every time he tried to sit up, he just ended up slumping in his seat again. He didn’t have many options. She wouldn’t be happy to be interrupted, wouldn’t be happy if he just got up and left, wouldn’t be happy if he fell asleep. The situation irritated him. She kept him in a box with no choices that wouldn’t result in a lecture, and eventually, he decided that if he’d be lectured anyway, there was no point in sitting there bored any longer.

               He climbed to his feet, ignoring all the eyes that shifted to him, and turned to leave, only to have his mother grab his wrist.

               “Where do you think you’re going?”

               Somewhere in the middle of the sentence, the voice changed, turned male. He turned around to see Hux, annoyance written on his fine features. Kylo went to tug himself free, but the General only tightened his hold. When he turned around to argue, to remind Hux that being General didn’t mean that he outranked him, the man turned his wrist and put his lightsaber in his palm. He looked up to Hux in confusion as the man wrapped both of his hands around the weapon.

               “You have orders,” Hux reminded him before stepping out of the way.

               Han Solo stood there on the bridge, concern in his eyes. Concern he would have loved to see years ago, when he realized that the excitement on the Falcon didn’t mean love from his father so much as entertainment to keep him out of his way. At least Leia made it clear that she saw him as a burden.

               Still, Kylo stood there, numb and dumb, lightsaber held clumsily in his hands. Hux said he had orders, he knew he was right, but he couldn’t remember what they were for the life of him. He had to prove himself to the Supreme Leader, once and for all, and he knew this task would be how to do it. He wracked his brain, trying almost desperately to remember what his orders were.

               “Ben,” Han said, with all the care and concern in the world. It distracted him, filled him deeply with both longing and bitterness.

               “Kylo,” Hux said, with a sigh of resignation. It distracted him, topping off his emotions, already full to brimming, with confusion.

               Slowly, Hux slid his hands down Kylo’s arms, embracing him from behind. Han remained frozen with that look that Kylo would have paid dearly to see as a child, as if he couldn’t see or hear Hux, as if it were just the two of them on the bridge.

               Hux’s hands folded over his own and guided his thumb to his lightsaber’s switch, turning the weapon to point at his father.

               He remembered his orders.

               “You always said that when the time came, you wouldn’t hesitate,” Hux whispered in his ear. “Who knew you were all bark and no bite.”

               Irritation flickered through Kylo, but he couldn’t make his thumb move.

               “Prove yourself,” Hux insisted. “To the Supreme Leader. To me.”

               Hux’s thumb slid atop his, but it was entirely Kylo’s movement that flicked the lightsaber on.

               “Ben,” Han said, betrayal and regret and resignation.

               “Kylo,” Hux said, warmth and satisfaction and pride.

                Kylo woke sharply, with a gasp, lying in bed. He groaned, raising his shaking hands to run over his face. It took longer than he liked to even out his breathing, and only when he was done did he turn to look at his alarm clock. He’d allowed himself to sleep that night, only three hours, telling himself it would be enough and too short a period for this to happen. He was wrong. It was one minute until his alarm went off. He reached over and thumbed it off.

               He decided against meditating, and went instead into the refresher, avoiding the mirror and going right for the shower. He turned the water up to scalding and stepped beneath it, letting the spray beat on his face, turning it pink. With a deep sigh, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the tile, his wet hair curtaining his face as the water spilled over his shoulders and back. He closed his eyes, breathed deep, and tried to forget.

Eventually, he left his room, knowing he couldn’t sit inside and sulk all day. It would raise questions and not improve the situation. He’d grabbed caf on his way down to the officer’s gym and watched as it emptied out when he entered. He went to the locker room as he waited for the last stragglers to leave, undoing the lock on his locker with the Force while setting his cup on the bench. Changing out from his uniform into a standard First Order training uniform was something he’d long since learned to do quickly, his belongings stuffed just as quickly into the locker, locking it behind him despite the empty room and the fact that the list of people who would consider messing with his things was limited to Hux and Phasma. He clipped his lightsaber to a modified weight training belt, unwilling to let the weapon leave his side.

               Snatching his cup, Kylo moved into the training room, sucking it down quickly as he stretched, burning his tongue. He tossed the empty cup and grabbed a bottle of water before climbing onto a treadmill. He cranked up the speed to a run, despite the fact that he knew he should warm up, start at least at a job if not a walk. But the sudden burn in his muscles and lungs helped clear his head until he lost himself in the movement, his mind going blank in a way almost like meditation. The Force pressed in around him, the different flavors of it from his surroundings bringing him something like peace, calming him as much as the mindless exercise did.

               It could have been minutes or an hour before Phasma entered, already in her training uniform, pulling him from his near-trance. He nodded at her briefly, watched the way her eyes narrowed, looking him up and down. When she moved from the doorway, Kylo turned his eyes forward again, staring blankly at the wall ahead of him. It was a testament to his exhaustion that he didn’t notice her approach until she slapped the emergency off switch on the treadmill.

               He slowed in time with the machine’s belt until he was standing still, when he turned to Phasma and raised an eyebrow.

               “Talk,” she ordered, folding her arms over her chest.

               “About?” he asked, twisting off the cap on his bottle, drinking to stall.

               “What’s wrong with you?” she asked, and when he continued to stall with his water, prompted, “Well?”

               “What makes you think something’s wrong with me?” he asked, capping his water and slipping it back into the treadmill’s cup holder.

               “You’ve been training so often it’s bordering dangerous, you drink more caf than you eat food, and the bags under your eyes are darker than your uniform,” she said, voice clipped. She was, in general, a no-nonsense person, but it was obvious that she was done with his behavior, even by her standards.

               “What difference does it make?” he asked, but sighed in resignation when she gave him a sharp look that clearly said she knew the stupidity of that statement as much as he did. He tried again. “I’m handling it, alright?”

               She snorted outright in response to that one before saying, “You’re handling nothing. Tell me the problem and we’ll fix it.”

               The answer made something warm curl in his chest. “We.” It wasn’t something he heard often.

               This time, he did nothing but stall outright. He looked to the side, searching for some excuse that she would buy, and feeling guilty for it all the while; he didn’t like lying to her.

               “Kylo,” she said. It wasn’t warm and it wasn’t kind, but neither of them had much experience with those things.

               “Nightmares,” he finally admitted. Now that it was in the open air, he turned to look at her, finding her eyebrows raised. “Every time I sleep. There’s nothing to fix.”

               Phasma lingered in her surprise, as if she didn’t expect him to be so impacted by something that seemed so small. It matched so well with his own disappointment in himself that he was so affected that it sparked irritation in him that he had to purposefully tamp down.

               “What are they about?” she asked eventually, head tilted to one side.

               Everything he used to have. Everything he could have had. Everything he lost. Everything he threw away. Costs and consequences and mistakes he couldn’t fix. All his insecurities that he fought so hard to bury, all his doubts in his own decisions, all his dashed hopes.

               The answer was too much and too little. He couldn’t give it to her.

               “Never the same thing twice,” he said, a technical truth covering a larger lie.

               Phasma paused in thought, then gestured with her head in the direction of an attached sparring room.

               “Come on. We’ll see if we can’t exhaust you enough that you don’t dream.”

               She didn’t pick and she didn’t pry. She knew that he wasn’t telling her everything, but was content in the fact that he had told her all that he could. She found the only way she could help, and the only kind of help he would have accepted.


End file.
